


Don't Screw the Crew

by alterocentrist



Series: Dancing around the lies we tell [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 18:03:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3391064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alterocentrist/pseuds/alterocentrist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When her daily experience at work falls along the lines of "anything goes", Sameen Shaw stuck by one personal rule: she didn't screw the crew. This gets significantly difficult to stand by once she gets assigned to work with Root.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Screw the Crew

To say that Sameen Shaw was accustomed to rude awakenings was an understatement.

Instinctively, she reached out for her phone, which was usually placed on the nightstand beside the bed. Only there was no phone. There wasn’t even a nightstand. She sat up. The duvet dropped to her waist, causing her to realise that she was naked underneath it. Sure enough, there was a man sleeping soundly beside her.

Her phone continued to beep. Sighing, she slid out of bed and crossed the room to her discarded black peacoat. She bent down to pat two of the inside pockets. The first, to check if her compact handgun—.22 caliber, her off-duty weapon of choice—was still in its dedicated pocket. The second, to retrieve her phone.

“Nice ass,” the man grunted from the bed.

Shaw turned around and shot him a mock glare. He was handsome enough, and not bad in bed, so she decided that he was worthy of some morning-after small talk. “Morning to you, too,” she said. She looked down at her phone. There were seventeen messages. She scrolled through some of them one by one, until she was satisfied that they all had the same gist.

“Wanna have breakfast?” the man asked. “You know,” he wagged his eyebrows, “after breakfast.”

She rolled her eyes. “Can’t,” she said. “I have to go to work.”

“It’s a Saturday.”

Shaw waved her phone at him from across the room. “Yeah, and I just got a tonne of messages telling me I have to come in.” The phone beeped again. Same message as the last one. “Ugh. I’m sorry,” she said, even if she really wasn’t, “I really have to go.” She retrieved items of clothing and put them on one by one. She was shrugging on her coat when the man asked:

“Are you gonna give me your number?”

“Not a chance, bud,” Shaw said, making for the door.

“Why not? We had a good time last night, didn’t we?”

“Yeah, we did,” Shaw conceded. “But I’m married.”

“ _What_?” he asked.

Shaw loved getting a rise out of men in this way. “I’m married to my work,” she said.

The man laughed with obvious relief. “Well, can’t you cheat on your work?”

“I just did.” Shaw exited the bedroom and made her way to the apartment door. “Thanks for the good night. Goodbye!”

“Wait!” the guy called out. There were frantic noises as he scrambled out of bed. “I don’t even remember your name!”

Shaw closed the apartment door shut behind her, smirking. “ _Good_.”

* * *

As she entered the discreet headquarters of her workplace, Shaw noticed that something was off. Her colleague, John Reese, who was also her partner on most assignments, was sitting at his desk, cleaning a gun, with Bear—the “company dog”—at his feet. Reese wasn’t wearing his usual black suit, and his actions lacked their usual urgency. “Reese,” Shaw said. “What’s up with you? Where’s Finch?”

Reese looked up. “He’s in his office,” he said.

“And why aren’t you in there with him? I got messages about a new assignment.”

“I’m not on this assignment with you,” Reese said. “Finch told me to take a back seat on this one because he’s waiting for the green light on an assignment that apparently would suit my skills better.”

“What’s this one?”

“From what I gathered, an interrogation.” Reese was frowning. He never enjoyed assignments that involved torture.

“Oh.” Shaw could feel a smile creeping on her face. “I’m taking this one solo?”

Reese shook his head. “No, you’re with Root.” He nodded at Finch’s closed door. “They’re in there. Waiting for you.”

“Root? _Seriously_?” Shaw demanded. She strode to Finch’s door and threw it open. Inside was Harold Finch, their boss of sorts, seated behind his desk, staring at her expectantly. And on one of the seats on the other side of the desk was Root.

“Sameen!” she exclaimed, grinning like they had just run into each other on a pleasant stroll in Central Park. “You’re here!”

* * *

Sameen Shaw remembered the first time she met Root.

She had been working at The Machine for a couple of months. She spent almost a year underground after unceremoniously quitting her job as a government assassin. The Machine was a small team of _specialists_ with an exclusive clientele—some of which requested killings from time to time.

Shaw would say that she was a perfect fit for The Machine. She didn’t want to _quit_ killing entirely; she just wanted a lifestyle change.

One day, Shaw came into work to find a brunette, tall and thin, lounging at her desk. She sipped a coffee as she tinkered with Shaw’s computer with a single, lazy hand. Shaw stood right in her sight line. “Excuse me,” she said.

The woman raised her wide, brown eyes to meet Shaw’s. “Hey there,” she said cheerfully.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” Shaw said, her tone suggesting exactly the opposite, “but this is my desk.”

“I’m aware of that,” the woman said coolly. “But Harold had instructed me to get this software installed on all the computers before giving me my next assignment. It won’t be long. Why don’t you go get yourself a coffee?”

“I don’t _want_ a coffee.” Shaw’s teeth were gritted.

The woman held her mug out. “Mind getting me a refill, then?” she asked.

“No. Who the hell are you anyway?”

“Fine.” With a small pout on her face, the woman lowered her coffee mug back on the desk. “My name is Root,” she said. “You must be Sam Shaw.”

“ _Sameen_ ,” Shaw corrected. “And Root? What kind of a name is that?”

“The only name I will answer to,” Root replied simply. She giggled when the computer on Shaw’s desk made affirmative noises. “Oh, would you look at that! My work here is done.” She stood up. “It’s very nice to finally meet you, Sameen. I hope we get to work together sometime.” With that, she disappeared into Finch’s office.

Root, Shaw learned, was The Machine’s go-to hacker and researcher. A change in circumstances had led her to provide her services in-house, for her own safety. But Finch occasionally assigned Root small solo cases. Apparently, besides being a grade-A geek, Root was also an expert in torturing and killing in a clean, precise manner.

This impressed Shaw. She had been on solo assignments, but Finch had not cleared her for any solo assassinations, because she was apparently “too messy”. She thought this was a ridiculous reason. She saw assassinations as a showcase, a masterpiece. As long as she left no trace of herself, who cared?

Well, _Finch_ , apparently.

Root may be an annoying geek, but Shaw couldn’t help being jealous of her.

* * *

Shaw removed her coat and hung it on the hooks by Finch’s door. She could feel Root’s eyes on her as she sat down. But before she could say anything, Root beat her to the punch.

“Wild night, Sameen?” Of course, Root had noticed that she was wearing yesterday’s clothes.

“You bet,” Shaw replied. She turned to Finch. “Sorry I’m late. I was a bit held up on the subway.”

Finch shrugged. “That’s all right, Miss Shaw,” he said. “I don’t think we were all expecting to be working on a Saturday.” He handed a manila folder to each of them. “I received a call from Lionel last night saying that a client wants a job done urgently, and has offered to pay double our rate for it. If you open your folders, you will see that I’ve done as much of the background research as I could, so you can move straight to recon.”

“Sounds great,” Root said. She was already perusing the contents of the folder. “If you want to go home and get changed, Sameen, you should probably do that now and get back here in a couple of hours. I think you’ll feel much better when you’ve freshened up.”

Shaw looked at her incredulously. Root was _already_ taking the lead on the assignment? “Fine,” she managed to say. “I could use a shower.”

“Perhaps you could buy us food while you’re at it. I do love stir fry noodles.”

“Sure.” Shaw rolled her eyes. “Finch,” she said, “if this is just an interrogation, then why am I needed on this assignment? I thought that these things were more Root’s specialty.”

“They are. But your skills in reconnaissance are essential for Root to be able to interrogate the target,” Finch said. “Furthermore, the client doesn’t want the target dead, so you’ll need to use your medical knowledge to patch him up afterwards.” Despite being their _de facto_ leader, Finch was the most uncomfortable with violence, and so he preferred to discuss it in vague terms.

“Right, so I’m basically on this assignment to clean up Root’s mess, then?”

Root gasped in mock affront. “You’re implying that I’m _messy_ , Shaw?”

“Miss Shaw, Root has a practiced hand with these kinds of assignments, and I’ve paired you up because you two have complementary skills that will fulfill what the client has asked for,” Finch said. “It might also benefit you to learn discretion and efficiency from her.”

“Well, _fuck_ that,” Shaw said. The others did not address her profanity. They knew that she wouldn’t turn a job down, even if it didn’t have the prospect of a commission from a double rate fee.

“Meet back here at one?” Root suggested. “I’m _excited_.”

* * *

The target was Colin Morrow III, a thirty-six-year-old Wall Street hack from a family of Wall Street hacks. Mr Morrow’s lust for money exceeded even those of his ancestors’, to the point that he struck up deals with some of New York City’s notorious criminal organisations. The crimes which he was implicated in could all classified as “white collar”; there was no blood on his hands just yet.

However, the sin that was to become Colin Morrow’s biggest downfall was that he didn’t keep his promises. And in the world of organised crime, promises were everything. Especially when there were millions of dollars at stake. Mr Morrow owed their client _a lot_ of money, but he hadn’t been coughing up.

Conducting reconnaissance on Mr Morrow was a simple task. Like the other unmarried male workaholics on Wall Street, he always arrived at the office slightly late, boasting of a hangover or walking out on their latest one night stand. At the end of the day, he would round up his buddies to get dinner and then drinks.

More often than not, he would leave the bar with a woman.

Which is where Shaw came in. It was Friday night. She wore her best cocktail dress and sat at the bar at Mr Morrow’s favourite evening destination. “Root,” she muttered, “I know we’re going to have a lot of fun tonight, but can I say something?”

Root’s voice crackled through her earpiece: “Sure, Sameen.”

“If we had an HR department, I’d have filed a complaint about being used as bait for these suited perverts one too many times,” Shaw told her.

“Lucky we don’t have an HR department then,” Root said. “Besides, if it makes you feel any better, no one likes this part any more than you do. Not me. Not Harold. Not John. But men like these are attracted to your feminine wiles. Trust me, you’re _very_ hard to resist.”

Shaw spotted Morrow’s coiffed blond hair in a huddle of rowdy white men in suits. “Shut up, he’s here.” She crossed her legs, pulled the hem of her dress up a few centimetres, and began to nonchalantly sip on her cocktail. She kept shooting coy glances over at Morrow, hoping that he would notice and come over.

Five minutes later, he sauntered over, a smirk on his insufferable face. “Can I buy you another drink?” he asked.

“I see you cut to the chase,” Shaw said.

“I’m not a big believer in wasting time,” he responded.

“ _Smooth_ ,” Root quipped sarcastically in her ear.

“Can you get me a martini, then?” Shaw asked. She had to resist the urge to snort at his smarmy, rehearsed attempts at banter. “ _Dirty_.”

Morrow asked the bartender for Shaw’s martini, and ordered a bourbon for himself. “I’ve never seen you here before,” he said.

“Oh, really?” Shaw raised an eyebrow. “Do you come here often?”

“ _Classic_ line, Sameen,” Root murmured.

He chuckled. “Oh, that’s funny,” he said. The bartender slid their drinks across the bar. He passed her the martini. “But to answer your question, I suppose you can call me a regular here. Like I said, I’ve never seen you before.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“It’s _very_ good.” He sipped his bourbon. “What do _you_ do?”

“I’m… between jobs at the moment,” Shaw lied. “I do some modelling here and in Europe, but I’ve decided to just make the move here, to see if I can get some permanent work.”

Morrow grinned. “I can see that,” he said. He raised his glass. “Welcome to New York.”

“Model, huh?” Root mused through her earpiece. “I guess that’s acceptable.”

Shaw resisted the urge to remove the damn thing. “Thank you,” she told Morrow as she inched closer to him. “What do you do?”

“I work at an investment bank on Wall Street,” Morrow said, with a noncommittal shrug. “I also trade stock in my spare time.”

“And how’s that working out for you?”

“Very well, actually. Every day is just a reminder to work hard and to play hard.”

“Sounds exciting.” This interaction was taking way too long. Shaw needed to get things moving. She also needed to get him to shut up. She took a long sip of her martini, making sure she maintained eye contact with Morrow the entire time. “This is a big deal, you know,” she said. “It’s not often that I’m in the company of someone _influential_.”

To her surprise, Morrow actually showed a sliver of modestly. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“Come on. I can practically _smell_ it on you. Old money, but trying to make a name for yourself, right?” Shaw asked. “You don’t want to be here slugging it out with the big guys just using your grandpa’s last name. You want to be here because of your own ambition and a tonne of elbow grease. Then you’re just like me. Chasing after that American dream, and all.”

Shaw swore that Morrow’s eyes actually glazed over listening to her. Man, men were _suckers_! He downed his glass of bourbon, coughed twice, and looked straight at Shaw. “Do you wanna get out of here?”

“Here we go!” Root said. “Nice speech, by the way. I never knew you were so eloquent.”

“Hmm.” Or maybe Morrow was just _weak_. Shaw placed her hand on his thigh, satisfied when she could feel his entire body tense. “I thought you’d never ask.” She let him lead her to the coat check—even ignoring the hooting from his friends—and then they walked out of the club, and she watched as he raised his hand to hail a taxi.

One pulled up in front of them. Morrow opened the door for her and waited for her to slide in, before getting in himself. He recited his address to the driver, who grunted in affirmation before driving away from the curb.

Shaw felt his hand inch further up her knee. She resisted the urge to shake it off, but once it inched past the hem of her coat, and then the hem of her dress, impulse overwhelmed her and she grabbed his hand and bent it backwards by the thumb.

“Hey!” he yelped. “What the hell is wrong with y–”

But he didn’t get to finish the question, because Shaw used her free arm to strike an elbow upwards through his chin. He grunted in pain, and blacked out, slumped against the window. She undid her seatbelt and slid open the plastic barrier between them and the driver. “Pull over,” she said.

“Sameen,” Root crooned through the barrier. Her hands were drumming lightly on the wheel. “That wasn’t polite.”

“ _He_ wasn’t polite,” Shaw retorted. “Now pull over.”

Root obliged, turning into a dark alleyway and killing the lights and engine.

“He’s gonna wake up in a couple of minutes,” Shaw said. “I’m gonna need that sedative.” She shoved an open hand through the barrier and waited until she felt the plastic of the syringe in her palm. “Thanks.” She found a vein and administered the sedative. She returned the syringe to Root. “Let’s go.”

* * *

They should’ve known that Morrow was an easy nut to crack. Barely an hour after he came to, with the help of needles and a pitch black room, he spilled his guts.

Root left the room to tinker with Morrow’s computer. She needed to see that the information was accurate before they could consider the job finished. Which meant that Shaw was left alone in the room with him.

While he was still unconscious, they fastened sheets of blackout fabric on his bedroom windows. Then they stripped Morrow down to his underwear and restrained him on his own bed. Shaw watched, through night vision goggles, as he squirmed in front of her. Root told her to not have fun while she wasn’t in the room. But maybe Shaw _just couldn't resist_. It brought out a temptation in her, being alone with Morrow.

“Sweetie?” Root called from the living room. “Can you come out here for a sec?”

Snapping out of her thoughts, Shaw got up noisily from her seat and chuckled when Morrow yelped at the noise. She grabbed a balled up pillowcase from the nightstand and stuffed it in Morrow’s mouth, before walking to the door. She stepped out and closed it behind her, taking her goggles off in one swift movement. “What’s up?”

“Well, he did tell the truth,” Root said. She yanked a flash drive from a port on Morrow’s laptop and tucked it into the inside chest pocket of her leather jacket. “I’ve got everything. Patch him up.”

“All right. Shoulda guessed that this one was a loser,” Shaw said. She entered the room again and stood over Morrow, who was pulling frantically at the ties on his wrist. “You should probably relax,” she told him. A warning cloaked in a coy statement. She removed the pillowcase from his mouth.

“ _Relax_?” he sputtered in the general direction of Shaw’s voice. Through her goggles, she could see that her pupils were blown, panicked, in the dark. “You’re using me as a human pincushion! What did I ever do to you?”

“Don’t be a baby,” Shaw scoffed. She and Root decided to go easy on him tonight. Getting unexpectedly pricked with needles, while tied down in a very, very dark room wasn’t so bad, especially compared to what they were capable of doing. “And I already told you. You pissed off some very powerful people. You’re lucky they didn’t order a hit.”

“Oh, right. Lucky.”

“Hey, buster, if they had ordered a hit from me, no one would’ve ever found you,” Shaw growled. Technically, that wasn’t true; she liked her hits messy. It was all about making a statement. But she could work within the brief if it was specified by the client. “Now, I sterilised those needles myself, but I’m gonna put some antiseptic on your cuts anyway. Don’t want them to get infected. I mean, what would you tell the nurse?” She pulled out the antiseptic bottle from the bag by her feet—it was an airplane-sized bottle of vodka.

No pain, no gain.

“And I know that you’re not gonna report this to the cops.” Using cotton buds, Shaw dabbed vodka on the small wounds created by the freshly removed needles. She continued talking nonchalantly over Morrow’s whimpers: “You wouldn’t know what to say to them without exposing yourself, and you wouldn’t want to tattle on the mobs with someone who might be colluding with them.”

She packed up the vodka and the used cotton buds, and then stood up again. “Now, now, Colin,” she said. “I hope you don’t forget to never bite off more than you can chew.” She administered a shot of sedative through a vein in his thigh. She waited the couple of minutes it took for him to fully lose consciousness before cutting the cable tie on his wrists.

She and Root spent the elevator ride in silence. “Hang on,” Root said, as they got into the nondescript silver car they had arranged for Reese to leave them in the apartment building’s back alley, “Did you cut the ties on his ankles?”

“Nah.”

* * *

Root hummed a tune as she began the drive back to headquarters. “That was fun,” she said.

“It was,” Shaw said. She was looking out the window, at the still-lit city buildings. She could sense a strange vibe emanating from Root. Maybe it was just the post-assignment high. She was familiar with that feeling.

“You know, Sameen,” Root said, “I’m surprised we haven’t teamed up sooner. We work together so well.”

“We do, don’t we?”

“I should tell Harold how well this assignment went. Perhaps we’ll get to spend more time together.” Stopping at a red light, Root turned to her and smiled brightly. “I’d really like that.”

Shaw narrowed her eyes. “You hitting on me, Root?”

Root’s foot hit the gas pedal as soon as the light turned green. “I wouldn’t call it _hitting_ on you, Sameen,” she responded, not missing a beat. “I’m simply looking for a chance to get to know you.” They pulled into the parking ramp and Root used an access card to open the gates.

“Look, you’re weird and you’re also annoying as hell, but I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought about how hot you are, especially when you’re being badass at your job.” Shaw watched as Root’s eyebrows quirked up. “I know we don’t have much rules or structures where we work, but I gave myself one rule. I don’t screw the crew.”

“Oh.”

“So, sorry, I guess,” Shaw said, shrugging. “These kinds of things just tend to get messy.”

Root parked the car perfectly. And then she made eye contact with Shaw, and a smirk tugged on the corners of lips. “Oh, Sameen,” she said. “Did I ever tell you that I like messy?”

With an exasperated huff, Shaw gathered her things and got out of the car, making a point of slamming the door. She stomped off to the nearest elevator, not even bothering to wait for her colleague. _Root_. That goddamned, crazy, computer geek.

* * *

Harold Finch was a good employer, and the smartest man Shaw knew, but there were times when he just missed the point. After the Morrow assignment, Shaw expected money in her bank account and a hearty debrief over beers with Reese. She got both. She also received four more assignments from Finch—and Root was her partner for all of them. Finch clearly didn't see anything wrong with that.

“You seem a bit tense, Sameen,” Root said.

“I’m fine. It’s an easy job.”

They were working on the second assignment, which was intercepting a package drop-off between two suspected corporate spies. Root, to her credit, had made an effort to respect Shaw’s boundaries since the Morrow assignment. Except with this assignment, they found themselves squashed in the middle of two shipping containers, Root’s front pressed against Shaw’s back.

“It feels like,” Root’s hips and torso wriggled behind her, “that you’ve been working way too hard lately.” She may have been—mostly—respecting Shaw’s personal space, but the not-so-subtle flirtatious remarks may be too difficult for her to suppress.

“Well, I’m sure you know that because you’ve been working with me,” Shaw said through gritted teeth.

“Yes,” Root said. “Working _real_ close.” Before Shaw could reply, Root moved out from between the shipping containers. “Okay, our guy’s here. Cover me?”

Shaw reached inside her coat for her 9-millimetre handgun. “That was the plan,” she said.

With a final nod, Root bounded out and confronted the man who was laying down a package at the edge of the dock. She incapacitated him in three quick moves and shoved him in the water with a flourish. As he thrashed in the water, Root tucked the package under her arm and casually walked back to where Shaw was. “Shall we?”

“I can’t believe they paid us five grand to do thirty seconds of work,” Shaw said. But she had a stupid smile on her face.

Root was a skilled and methodical worker, but she liked showing off from time to time. And of course, Shaw enjoyed it when she did—not that she would admit it. The smile probably did that for her, though. The screeching of car tires prompted her to rearrange her features accordingly. “Yeah, we should get outta here.” She grabbed Root by the hand and they moved through the shadows together.

They finally reached their car. Shaw looked expectantly at Root, who had the keys.

“Sameen.”

“What _now_?”

Root was grinning widely. “You’re still holding my hand.”

* * *

“You don’t screw the crew. You don’t screw the crew. You don’t. _Screw. The. Crew_.” Shaw did one final bicep curl. She expelled a harsh breath before slowly lowering the dumbbell to the floor. She stood up and stretched her arm thoroughly. Exercise had always been a way for her to clear her mind. And lately, she needed to clear her mind of Root.

It confused Shaw. She knew that she was attracted to skill, to confidence, to someone just being damn good at their job. But she also knew that in her line of work, one needed to have personal rules. She refused to let herself harbour unprofessional feelings towards her colleagues. But why couldn’t she do that with Root?

Maybe it was because before this, she had spent most of her time with Reese. He was funny and protective, not to mention the one man you’d want on your side in a firefight, but there was no attraction there. He was more of a brother to Shaw. Perhaps her attraction to Root was just because she was still adjusting to the shift of dynamic. After all, Shaw didn’t know how to form healthy relationships anyway.

Shaw took a shower and got dressed to go out. She was heading over to Chelsea, to her favourite bar, for the evening. Finding an outlet to release her pent-up sexual energy might be the first step to solving her problem.

* * *

“Miss Shaw, so nice of you to join us,” Finch said as Shaw stepped inside headquarters, twenty minutes late, still wearing last night’s clothes. “Would you like some coffee? Tea?”

“I’m fine, thanks,” Shaw grunted, trying to avoid eye contact with Reese, who had a small smirk on his face, and Root, who was staring at the curve-hugging deep purple dress she had on under her coat. She draped the coat over the back of her desk chair before sitting down at the meeting table. “Sorry I was late.”

“That’s perfectly fine,” Finch said offhandedly. “Let’s get started.” He passed out manila folders to everyone. “Lionel got a call from one of our more loyal clients this morning.”

Lionel Fusco, former crooked cop turned private security consultant, moonlighted as The Machine’s liaison with their clients. Almost all of their clients only knew him and none the others involved with The Machine. It was better that way. “Early this morning, Raul Adelardi called me saying that his daughter Pia had been abducted”

“Adelardi, that black market art dealer?” Reese asked. That was almost flattering, euphemistic language. Raul Adelardi was the most notorious international trader of stolen art and other precious artefacts on the East Coast. “I didn’t know he had a daughter.”

“Well, in our line of work, you wouldn’t be going around telling everyone about your family, would ya?” Fusco asked. He glanced down at the page in his manila folder. “Anyway,” he continued, “he believes that Anna Norcross is behind it.” Norcross could be considered as Adelardi’s rival on the scene, although she had a more legitimate profile: a public intellectual from a wealthy Connecticut family.

“I thought that in our line of work, we also avoid getting personal on principle,” Reese said.

“Maybe Norcross plays dirty, all right?” Fusco turned the page. “The ransom that the kidnappers asked for is Caravaggio’s _Nativity with St Francis and St Lawrence_.”

Root blew a low whistle. “I thought that painting burnt to the ground with the building it was hidden in back in 1999,” she said.

“I asked Adelardi about that. He said someone did get in contact with him about this painting, but he hadn’t had the chance to check if it was legit yet,” Fusco said. “Obviously, Norcross wants it for herself. She has more connections to get the painting through clean channels where she can get a higher price.”

“So what’s the job?” Shaw asked. “Are we stealing a painting or getting the kid?”

“The person that got in touch with Adelardi about it was traced back to Argentina. It would take days to confirm that, weeks to make sure he isn’t walking into a trap,” Fusco said. “And he’s pretty pissed that Norcross took his kid. That matters more to him. So we’re taking the kid. He can sort out the painting later.”

“Gee, and here I was thinking that we would be going on a trip,” Shaw said.

“As with the similar assignments that we’ve done, this will be a team effort. Mr Adelardi doesn’t want the police involved, and I’m sure there would be repercussions on Ms Norcross’s part. We’re better equipped to prevent anything from happening to the child,” Finch said said. “Root, you and I will find out where Pia could possibly be located. Once we have that piece of information, Mr Reese and Miss Shaw are in charge of retrieval.”

Shaw smiled. Finally, things are falling back to the way they used to be.

“This is _Anna Norcross_ that we’re going up against, Finch,” Fusco said. “You don’t think some extra hands on deck would be a good idea? I know people.”

“You’re right.” Finch looked at Root. “You wouldn’t mind providing backup to Mr Reese and Miss Shaw, would you?”

“Of course not.” Root looked straight at Shaw as she spoke. “It would be my pleasure.”

Shaw’s gaze dropped to the table’s surface. Her sex life had been wilder than usual lately, and she hated to admit that it was because of this _unresolved thing_ with Root. They had not been alone together for almost three weeks. She was doing well; she could even feel her lust tempering. She couldn’t risk undoing her progress.

Finch—either oblivious to or deliberately ignoring the intangibles between Shaw and Root—smiled crookedly. “See, Lionel?” he addressed Fusco. “All hands on deck. We’ve got nothing to worry about.”

* * *

Shaw and Reese soon discovered that there was a reason why Anna Norcross always seemed to get what she wanted. It was because she had virtually unlimited resources. It was because she chose to be a criminal even if with her fortune, she didn’t have to work for the rest of her life. A billionaire socialite with a dark secret. She might as well be Bruce Wayne, if Bruce Wayne was interested in smuggling stolen art.

Or if Bruce Wayne preferred to use his money for other people to do his dirty work. And if these other people were trained, deadly professionals with barreled chests and big guns. Guns which were aimed at Shaw and Reese, who were trapped in a windowless room. The same windowless room where Pia was supposedly hidden in.

“I’m gonna fucking kill Finch,” Shaw muttered.

“We better get out of here alive first,” Reese replied, his eyes never leaving the barrel of the gun pointed at his chest. “And I’m not sure that Finch is to blame. Norcross is way too smart for this to be an easy job.”

“And she _really_ wants that painting.” Shaw sighed, before turning her attention to one of the men guarding her. “Hey, buster, you wanna make this a fair fight?”

“Shut up!” the man barked.

Shaw eyed their weapons, phones and earpieces laid down in the furthest corner of the room. She needed to find a way to get to them without being killed by a hail of bullets “Aw, come on, the biggest I’ve got is a 9-millimetre… That’s nothing compared to yours.” She nodded at their rifles. “Trying to pick a fight with a couple of unarmed errand runners with those guns just _screams_ overcompensation.”

“Didn’t you hear me the first time? I said _shut up_!” Well, that didn’t sound like he was discouraged from shooting her.

“All right, jeez,” Shaw said. “No need to get your panties in a twist.”

“Shaw,” Reese warned. He almost looked exasperated. They had been in situations like this before. Everyone knew that Shaw was terrible at talking down anyone who was armed and irate. But everyone knew she would refuse to listen to anyone who tried to stop her from doing so.

“You gonna let her talk to you like that?” the other man asked. His grip on his gun tightened.

Reese raised an open palm towards them. “Now, now, boys,” he said. “We don’t want to do anything rash.”

“You can shut the fuck up too,” the man retorted. “In fact, next person who says a word will get a bullet in the chest, all right?”

A beeping sound from the door indicated that it had been unlocked. There was a soft creak as it swung open. One of the men turned around to see who it was, and then a gunshot echoed throughout the room.

The other man whirled around as the first man fell to the floor. “What the –” he managed, before another gunshot, and then he was on the floor, too.

“The next person who talks gets a bullet in the chest, am I correct?” Root stood in front of the door, her two handguns still at the ready. She looked up from surveying the two men’s bodies, a satisfied smirk on her face. “Hello, John. Hello, Sameen.”

Shaw would never admit that she was happy to see Root, although her insides were flooding with relief and _attraction_. Root _must_ know what dual wielding does for her appeal. Shaw tried to snap out of it: “How the fu–”

Root simply shook her head. “I’ll explain later. There are security cameras in this room,” she said. She lowered her guns and kicked the plastic tray with Shaw’s and Reese’s possessions towards them. “They’ll be coming for us soon. And we’ve got a little girl who really needs our help.”

Shaw pocketed her phone and her .22 caliber, and turned the safety off on her 9-millimetre. Its weight felt warm and exciting in her hand. She looked at Reese, and then at Root, and took a deep breath. There were no better people to create chaos with.

* * *

Three hours later and the team confirmed that all possible threats were neutralised. It was explosive and arduous, but Pia was safe, and in the end, that was what mattered to the team. And to the client. Fusco and Reese drove Pia back to her house while Shaw and Root headed back to drop their car off to headquarters.

Well, at least, that was the plan. Neither of them expected to get covered in blood.

Root suggested that they go back to her apartment, where she had the proper cleaning chemicals for bloodstains and gunpowder residue. Even if Shaw could manage cleaning up with the things she had in her apartment, she agreed anyway. Partly because she was curious about where Root lived, and partly because she wanted to see how far she can go without making a stupid decision.

Her estimate? Not very far. Especially while coming down from the high of winning a firefight. Shaw was aware that this was a terrible idea, but she was wired and the last thing she wanted tonight was to be alone.

Root’s building was nicer than Shaw’s, outfitted with keycard entry and security cameras in the lobbies and elevators—which Root had assured her that she already hacked into, automatically erasing traces of the two of them, filthy and battle-weary from the security tapes.

“Here we are,” Root said. She flicked on the light switch, revealing a small living area with cosy furniture and off-white walls. The far side of the room, by the window, was dominated by an elaborate computer setup. Root walked over to a closet and pulled out a towel and a black plastic bag. “Would you like to take a shower first?”

“Nah, I feel a bit on edge, still,” Shaw said. “You take a shower, I’ll make some coffee or something.”

Root surveyed her face before nodding. “Okay,” she said. “My kitchen should be straightforward to use. It’d be a better idea to stay around the dining table though, so you won’t get blood on the upholstery.”

“Noted. Thanks.”

Root disappeared inside her bedroom and emerged fifteen minutes later. Her hair was damp and she was wearing a loose-fitting grey t-shirt and black leggings. Shaw had never seen her dressed down before. It was a more alluring sight than she had imagined. “Sameen,” Root interrupted her thoughts, “your turn.”

“Right.” She accepted the new towel that Root handed her, and listened to Root’s instructions about putting her bloody clothes in a plastic bag so she can take care of it the next day.

“I laid out some clothes for you.” Root’s eyes blatantly scanned her body. “I hope they fit.”

“I’m sure they will,” Shaw said briskly. She entered Root’s bedroom—bed, nightstand, wardrobe—and made her way to the bathroom, which was still warm from the steam of the previous shower. She turned on the water, shed her clothes and took her time washing herself.

When she finished, she wrapped the towel around herself and cinched it at the chest. She looked at herself in the mirror.

She didn’t screw the crew. She didn’t screw the crew. She didn’t screw the crew.

Not even when a _certain member_ of the crew casually barged into the turf of a powerful criminal and took down the hired help without so much as blinking. It wasn’t just to get the job done, either; it was also to save Shaw.

“Oh, fuck,” Shaw muttered. She stormed out of the bathroom, ignored the clothes laid out for her on the bed, and stepped out into the lounge.

Root stood in the kitchen with her back to Shaw. “Hi there,” she said, without even bothering to look. “I hope that shower was refreshing.”

“It was,” Shaw said.

Root poured a cup of coffee before turning around. Her jaw slackened for a fraction before she composed herself. “Oh, hey!” she said, clearly a bit flustered. “The clothes were on the bed. Didn’t you see them?”

“I did see them. I just wanted to tell you something.”

“It couldn’t wait until you were dressed?” Despite assuming a vague tone of protest, Root’s eyes were eagerly skimming the uncovered parts of Shaw’s body.

“Root, you know I’m not good at this,” Shaw started, “but, uhm, thanks. Thanks for saving my ass tonight.”

“Well, it was really nothing. Don’t mention it,” Root said, and she even sounded modest. “You and John were in trouble. I’m not the kind of person who leaves their colleagues behind.”

Shaw bit her lip. “But we’re not just colleagues, are we?”

“No, we aren’t,” Root admitted. “But Shaw,” Root’s use of her last name was jarring, “you’ve made what you wanted clear. You don’t screw the crew, right?” There was a small smile on her face. “God, you say the most ridiculous things sometimes.”

And it was ridiculous, Shaw realised, when she heard it from Root’s mouth. Sure, it was a great rule—perhaps an essential one—to have, but god, they just went up against one of the city’s biggest criminals and _won_. She was allowed to just forget about it for one night, right? Surely she was allowed to give in.

“You know what, Root?” she finally said. “I know what I want more, so fuck it.” She took a step forward and loosened her towel. It dropped to the floor.

Root’s response, for one rare, shining moment, was to the point: “Okay, Sameen.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first out of a short series of F/F couples in assassins AU settings. I know the AU isn't much a stretch for Person of Interest, but it was fun to write anyway. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it :)


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